lovers that went wrong
by balthazars
Summary: catoclove and the lives they lived - au - for middy (angels are watching over you)


AN: for middy (angels are watching over you), happy belated birthday and i hope this is okay!

Also for the third week of the gift giving extravaganza.

* * *

_well i've lost it all, i'm just a silhouette_

_fairytale au_

If he'd had the choice, he wouldn't be here, squinting up at the tower looming overhead, bricks faded with age and chipped away in places. But his parents had insisted he come rescue the princess, that it was supposed to be this way; he saving her from her prison and her marrying him to repay her gratitude.

He finds it all absurd. Surely he could find himself a wife without having to save her, and surely the princess could get herself a husband without having to spend her days locked up.

When he ascends the stone steps and enters the room, his first thought is that somehow, miraculously, somebody else has saved her, that he won't have to marry this stranger. And then his eyes come to rest on the figure balancing on the window ledge, worn book in hand.

His aversion to damsels in distress is quieted for a moment as he regards the girl perched on the window ledge.

Unruly dark hair spills past her shoulders, obscuring part of her face. His eyes rake over the arch of her long legs in a way he knew his mother would have scolded him for. Her dress was frayed at the edges from where it has been torn short, now hardly grazing her mid thigh.

She doesn't look up from her book as she speaks, her voice clipped and holding a hint of anger. "Are you going to stand there and stare forever?"

His eyes narrow as he fumbles for words, anger welling up in him at her nerve. He can hear the cold amusement in her voice when she speaks again. "It's rather impolite, you know."

"You shouldn't dare speak so rudely to your rescuer, _princess_."

The last word comes out as sneer, and she finally raises her head to meet his eyes, her book sliding from her hands and onto the floor. "Save me?" She cocks her head slightly to one side, a smirk playing on the corner of her lips. "You think you're _saving _me?"

Her laughter is harsh in his ears, echoing off the curved walls.

"No, I came all the way here to take you on a picnic." He snarls at her, hands balling into fists.

"I'm not leaving." There's no trace of humour in her tone now. "They locked me up here, and _left me_, why would I want to go back there and marry someone who I don't even know for God's sake!"

For a second, he aches to sit beside her on the ledge and stay for a while, hating the rest of the world with her, but he knows his parents would send someone to find him and that the princess would hardly be great company anyway, considering how she seemed to despise him.

"You're coming whether you want to or not." he tells her, closing the distance between them in two strides and wrapping his arms around her petite frame.

She twists violently, slipping from the window as she struggles to escape his grip. For a second he thinks he has her, then gravity kicks in and all he's holding is a piece of torn cloth as her body hurtles towards the grassy meadow below.

Staring down at her, hair splayed around her head and limbs twisted at unnatural angles, he wants to scream at the top of his lungs, because she was cold and hateful but so was he and she didn't need saving, not like all the other girls. She was perfectly capable of saving herself.

But screaming is useless he thinks. Because he can scream until his voice is weak and his words run out but she'll still be dead.

* * *

_a lifeless face that you'll soon forget_

_vampire au_

Her lips brush against his, rough and urgent, her hands tugging at his hair non too gently, and he sighs inwardly, because by now he knows how this goes.

It starts with a warm night and a dark alley and a little too much champagne, her lips finding his and her body draped around him like he's oxygen and she'll suffocate without him. Her bare legs wrap around his waist and her dark hair brushes against his face, the aroma of blood and sweat and just enough alcohol to make him woozy tickling his nose.

And each time she pulls away and says the same thing, two words that play through his head day in and day out. "Turn me." she says, her voice harsh and insistent, but each time he shakes his head and whispers "Not yet." shoving her against a wall as their lips crash together again.

Later she'll lean against the wall, cigarette in hand as she watches him drink some unfortunate fellow dry, her eyes afire with a hunger that would frighten away anyone sane, anyone besides him, as she informs him yet again that it was her swaying hips, her smoldering glimpses and flirty hair tosses that got him the guy to begin with. That he owes her for it, owes her eternal life with him.

And he wants to scream at her because she doesn't get it, doesn't get that it's not fun watching everyone you love age and die as you remain the same. Having eternity ahead of you and nothing to do with it.

But he resists yelling, because he knows she'd insist it would be different if she were like him, it would be the two of them, and infinity would seem luminous with her by his side.

He doesn't know if he could tolerate her for a couple years, let alone for as long as he lived.

This time when she pulls her face from his and utters those two words, he responds the way he always has, and brings his lips back to hers, not thinking as he trails kisses down her neck. Not thinking when she presses his face into the pale skin of her neck. Not thinking as his fangs slide down, sinking into her neck.

Not thinking until she begins shrieking, her voice desperate and scared – the first time he's heard her speak without an air of confidence, tears streaming down her face and onto his. The tears trailing off her chin brings him back, like emerging through the surface of a lake, and he's aware of her feeble heartbeat, of the blue in her face and her fingertips, of the fact that he can't stop. Can't pull himself off of her.

He feels her go faint in his arms as blood stops gushing into his mouth, and he knows she's dead before he presses his fingers into her neck, hoping desperately for a pulse. Knows that she can't come back, not when her heart has stopped _beating_. He tries anyway, slicing his wrist with a shard of glass, pressing his arm to her mouth and praying that life would return to her eyes. That she'd glare up at him with a scowl on her face and say something nasty, like she always does.

He stays like that for the entire night, holding her and praying to someone, anyone that she'd return to him. And when it hits him that she's not coming back, like a blow to his chest, knocking the wind from his chest, and he hates her for insisting, for not backing off. Hates himself for destroying the only happiness he found since he become this way, even if most of the time he hated her more than he loved her.

* * *

_my eyes are damp from the words you left_

_war au_

Sometimes he wonders what he's doing here, fighting for a country that's never done anything for him.

Because the men fighting alongside him are honourable, willing to throw their lives away, and for what? The battle will go on, nobody noticing as yet another body drops to the blood stained ground.

It's expected that he be here, of course, a necessity, unless he'd prefer to be branded a coward, something he certainly _isn't._ He's weary of it though, so sick of this bloody war that nobody else realizes is pointless.

He catches a glimpse of her, lips curled into a scowl and eyes that say she's meant for something more than this, and he thinks that she may realize too.

She's young and beautiful and smart, and _god, _doesn't she deserve more than this?

He asks her once, when his arm is injured and she's wrapping the bandages for him, and she laughs, brown eyes sparking as she says of course she does, aiding the injured isn't a fitting job for her.

He wonders if any job would be fit for her, the cold girl whose a little too improper and a little too outspoken.

Feeling her warm lips on his, the cold night air on their skin, he thinks of a different life. A life where she could be revolutionary and he could escape this feeling of not quite living up to the expectations and there could just be him and her and no war.

Then it's gone and he's back in the war, to watching man after man drop, both sides of the battlefield seeing loss after loss.

He thinks that the only time he's safe is when he's at camp, lukewarm soup in front of him, row upon row of men and nurses savouring this short escape from the bloodshed.

And then the doors are flung open as men pour in, guns ablaze, and it's a mess of gunshots and war cries and men desperately reaching for their weapons, women fleeing for the infirmary.

At first all he can think is that he's still alive, has his gun, needs to shoot the enemies, who are mid-invasion.

He's just shot the arm of a man, when he spots her across the room, face calm even as she struggles to reach the door on time. Others have told him that it seems to happen in slow motion, every moment stretched out, seemingly never ending yet painfully short.

It's not like that, not at all. One second she's running towards the door, and the next there's a bullet slicing through her side as she slumps to the ground.

As red starts to stain her nurse's uniform, he thinks that this is why he's here, because she could have been anything she wanted to be after all this, and now she'd never get that chance.

* * *

_ringing in my head, when you broke my chest_

_titanic au_

They called it the ship of dreams, the ship to be on if you wanted to start anew, whether that meant starting life elsewhere or starting a new life with a spouse. He's not sure he would call it that, but starting anew was beyond appealing and what bad could come from a little optimism?

He'd met her not long before, a pretty little thing with a sharp mind and a bit of a rebellious streak, and when a girl like her asks one to run away with her, he doubts many would refuse.

Neither of them are very wealthy, but he's a decent thief and her self-worth rivals that of the richest; between the two of them they can almost convince themselves that they're going to mean something at the end of it all, that they're going to have accomplished something they'll be celebrated for.

Secretly, he's not as convinced as she is, but to argue with her is like throwing yourself into the fire, so he smiles and nods and picks a fight with her about something else, taunting her into pulling some ridiculous stunt, because he's not a gentlemen and she's not a lady and they're not about to start acting like they are.

When they first here the news that they're sinking, that they've struck an iceberg, that everyone needs to get off the boat, they throw their heads back and laugh, ignoring the glares sent their way, because this is the unsinkable ship.

But then they hear it again, and the water starts rising, well, the boat starts sinking but they prefer to think of it as the water rising, and he doesn't think he's seen her like this before, panic written across her face, replacing her usual unwavering calm.

He runs for his room, yelling at her to get on a lifeboat, that he needs to get something and he'll be back in a minute, that she has to go damn it, before all the boats are full.

When he returns to the deck, it's chaos. People are screaming for their loved ones, sliding along the deck floor in their rush for the boats, and he joins them, elbowing his way past, reminding himself that she's on a lifeboat, that she's stubborn but she's not _that _stubborn.

He's on a lifeboat, floating away from the tragedy that is the Titanic when he catches a glimpse of long black hair framing a heart shaped face, and then it's gone but it looked so much like her and _what if she didn't get off?_

A few weeks after it all, he's lying on the bed in a small apartment somewhere in a washed out city when he hears a knock on the door, and his heart leaps because she got off the boat and she's found him and she's _here._

Standing in the doorway is a man slightly older than him, leaning awkwardly against the door frame and looking anywhere but at him.

He clears his throat and says that he was sent to inform him that she's dead, she never made it off the boat, she wanted to wait for him and when she tried to find a lifeboat they were all gone, floating away from the boat.

Later, looking at the ring he returned to his room to get, the one he was planning on giving to her when they started their new lives, far away from the weight of their past lives, he thinks of things he's been told. That the Titanic was unsinkable, that people thought his heart was so hard it was unbreakable, that people like him and her could never be of any importance

He supposes everything is unbreakable until it is broken.

* * *

_and if you're in love, then you are the lucky one_

_bipolar au_

The thing about her is that she's delicate, fragile in a way that he fears even the slightest tumble will break her, yet she's strong, forceful, with an inside like steel.

He's never quite sure how to handle her, except to take it day by day, as he does with everything else life throws at him. Each day he wakes up and goes to meet her for coffee, smiling to cover up his anxiety of what he'll find. A sobbing mess or an excited idealist.

He worries about her sometimes, when she knocks on his door at one in the morning, bouncing inside his room as she rambles on about how she couldn't sleep, and thought maybe she'd sleep better if she were him. He agrees ever time, though he knows he won't get any sleep. Not with her constantly in motion, bouncing, talking, running her hands over him.

For a while he thinks she's just energetic, easily excitable, that she downs too many coffees.

But then she skips town for a week, or two, or three, turning up on his doorstep again one morning as if nothing happened, laughing off his comments, saying that she went for a trip and she's back now.

And then she dyes her hair a wild colour, or gets a piercing, or a tattoo, or goes skydiving off the tallest buildings around, and he wants to wrap her up in his arms and never let her leave them because someday her impulses are going to get her hurt.

Each time she returns from her trips, with hip piercings or a lower back tattoo or a half shaved head, he pleads her not to leave again and she smiles and says okay, telling him all the things she did while she was away, unresponsive to his anger.

Sometimes when she gets like this he wonders if she can even feel angry, or anything besides this constant elation.

The weeks pass and her elation fades, until she's like when they first met, sarcastic and a little too cold for anyone besides him. Each time he lets himself believe it'll stay like this, and each time he knows he'll be proven wrong.

He learned long ago that after the elation, after the brief period of normalcy, comes the worst part, when her energy drains and her mood darkens and he worries for her more than usually. He often wonders why no one else worries for her. Why she doesn't go to the hospital, because surely this isn't _normal._

She insists that it is, that she'll be fine, that this is just who she is, and quarrelling with her is pointless because she always wins, so he agrees to drop it until he begins to worry again, and she talks about death as if it's the next adventure that she can't wait to begin.

And then she runs off. Comes back, with a tattoo or piercing. Laughs like they used to when they first met. Becomes tired, and sad, and bitter. Repeat.

Until one day she doesn't turn up at his house, doesn't meet him at the coffee shop, and he walks over to hers, because this happens sometimes when she gets sad. She gets sad and wants to sit at home alone. Gets lonely and sits at home wishing for someone to be with her. Gets sad because nobody is around to be with her.

It takes a moment for him to process the sight that greets him, and many more before he can drag himself off the ground, quieten his sobs, and reach for his phone, hands trembling as he calls the number.

The doctor tells him she was bipolar, that they could have saved her if they'd known, and he hates himself because _he _knew, he knew and he could have said something.

They don't show her at the funeral, wanting everyone to remember her as the person they knew, not the shell of a person lying in the casket with wrists slashed to ribbons.

In another situation, he might have found it funny, because in all honesty, she _was _a broken shell of who she could be. It was just that nobody looked hard enough to notice.

* * *

_'cause most of us are bitter over someone_

_hunger games_

They've developed this act where they smile and laugh and pretend that they feel nothing as the murder the other tributes, watching as one by one they fall.

She laughs loudly, her high pitch giving her away to him. He snarls, the words just distant enough that she knows he's still there beneath them. They have to stay in their right minds, she tells him. Can't let the game creep into their minds and turn them into unfeeling killing machines.

He nods and they keep moving, both ignoring the fact that they may have to kill each other, that it may be the two of them left standing at the end, forced to kill each other.

They both know they would kill the other, if they had to, if it meant they got to go home and never return here. He thinks that's what scares them the most, knowing that they'd do it, if it came down to it.

And then the announcement comes on overhead, that both tributes from a district could go home together if they were the last two standing.

She turns to him and rolls her eyes and snarls "The things they do for those two lovebirds."

He nods in agreement and replies "I suppose we'll have to finish them, then."

They smile and laugh, knowing that the audience will take it as the laugh of people who enjoy the hunt. He wonders what they'd think if they knew it was the laugh of people who now knew they could have a future together.

Really, he should have known that life wouldn't give him that happiness, but still, watching the district eleven boy bring the rock down on Clove's head, he wanted to scream and cry and _kill _him for what he'd done.

Even more so he wanted to kill himself for letting this happen.

But she would hate him even more for giving up, so he runs to her side, dropping to his knees beside her, his arms pulling her to him. In the distance, he hears someone screaming, an agonized screech.

For a second he can feel her heart beating faintly, and he tightens his grip on her. If she can just pull through, keep breathing, they can still make it through this. He feels her heart stop and it's like losing her all over again.

He's not sure whether he kneels beside her for a minute of five or ten, but eventually the pain fades to a numb determination to win this, for her, and he becomes aware that the screaming he heard before was coming from him.

His parents had always felt that he'd never quite met their expectations, and falling from the cornucopia, towards the muttations, knowing one of them looked like her, had _her _eyes, it occurs to him that he hasn't met hers either.

As the mutts start to sink their teeth into him, he wonders if she hates him for not winning for her. As they begin to tear at him, right before he becomes lost in the pain and the sounds of his screams and the distinct sound of ripping flesh, he thinks he would hate him, if he were her.

And he hopes that wherever she is, she forgives him.

* * *

AN: Okay, sorry, I don't really know what this is and it's kindof morbid with Clove dying so many times, but I hope this war alright, I've never tried writing this pair au before c:

Also, lyrics are from Youth by Daughter.


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